Chronicles of Death
by Jesus Christ Superstar
Summary: A collective work of all the Death Eater’s thoughts. Why they joined the Death Eaters, their thoughts, and their reasons for their actions… Sometimes Fate can be a fickle thing.
1. Antonin Dolohov

**Author's Note:** _This was an idea that has been bugging me for quite some time. I'm not a very big fan of the "good side" when it comes to Harry Potter. If I were in that altered reality that Miss Rowling had created for us, I would be a pureblooded witch, probably, and in league with Voldemort. Which has brought me to write this. Most of the Death Eaters, in my opinion, are mistreated by Fandom and, with my noble causes towards Voldemort and his followers, I have taken it into my hands to insure that they are not misunderstood any longer. I believe that, like Regulus Black, there are more than one reason behind their "following", and their motives behind the murders they committed besides Voldemort making them. Thus, I present to you, the long time planned, and hopefully thoughtful, piece on the Death Eaters…_

**Disclaimer:** _I own none of the characters mentioned, nor the causes or chains of events that are obvious in this work. I am making no money off of this publication, and all rights belong to Miss Rowling._

**Summery:** _A collective work of all the Death Eater's thoughts. Why they joined the Death Eaters, their thoughts, and their reasons for their actions… Sometimes Fate can be a fickle thing._

* * *

Antonin Dolohov

_"No more be grieved at that which thou hast done."_  
**William Shakespeare, _Sonnet Thirty-Five_**

When she touched me, I was with heaven- I was so in love when I left Hogwarts, so infatuated by the simple things of life. Like the fact that the flowers blossomed in the spring, and that ice melted leaving behind no trace that it had ever been there before. It left the ground with no scars, just refreshing water from which new life would grow, and weave around tree trunks, and garden fences… And the sun would always come out another day; it's rays casting golden hues upon the earth as it washing the sins from winter away. Bleaching those who had become filthy, clean, and then embracing them. I was in love with that- the cycles of the planet, the beauty in each and every leaf, the warm breeze when it touched my face, the fact that when she held my hands, I got shivers up my spine… I loved her. We were a pair that didn't care about the world coming to shreds around out- falling apart at the seams. We were together, with our arms around each other, and that was all that mattered… Until the day that I decided to get a mark burned on my forearm that would cause everything I knew to disappear.

I was wealthy, I was successful. I had a beautiful wife, and two children. I loved them so much- I held them close to me like my father neglected to do for me. I clutched them to me, and I sprinkled them in affection and attention. I loved my wife, and I watched as my two children grew. They never made it past their third birthday… And it was my fault. They died near their favourite area on our grounds in southern France. My wife perished just in the courtyard- she was wearing her finest jewellery. I was to take her out that night for our anniversary. They were murdered by two men that I grew to hate so much- that I felt my stomach churn at the mention of them. I drank after I would come home following their murders… By getting this… this devil's mark burned into my skin, it was the same as if I murdered them with my bare hands.

Our manor was the most beautiful home in all of France. Better than anyone's that I knew, that I respected. It wasn't that the house itself was large and extravagant; it was the grounds that brought it all together. Surrounding my home were so many acres of hills and vineyards that it looked like something out of the Renaissance. And my family fit in there perfectly… My wife loved to garden, and she had a beautiful flower patch just outside the back of the house- a nice one mile stretch of everything from English roses to bluebells. She would always kneel in the dirt, and I would always come out to place my hands upon her shoulders, whispering inquires as to why she did that, staining her outfits, when we had a whole crew of people, and house-elves, that could do it for her. And she told me that she loved working there, that she felt much more happy picking the flowers that she had nourished. And then she would kiss my hand, leaving a red lipstick smear on my olive-tinted skin, and say, "Oh, Antonin, you superficial Russian- it is nothing more than a 'girl-thing'. You wouldn't understand, so why do you ask every day?"

And I would reply to her with a deep sigh, my lips pressing to the top of her head, her brown curls all bunched up on the top of her head, graceful and poetic like everything she represented. I would close my eyes, and I would breathe in the sweet smells of lavender and jasmine that she would use in the shower- I would hold her there for only a few seconds, but enough to let her know that I adored her, that I looked up to her… And that I loved her. There was nothing that could replace her in my life- and I would reply, grinning, and whispering into her ear, "Because, my love, I wish to hear your voice always, for without it, I will go mad."

How ironic. How stupidly ironic was that… That when she is gone, I can still hear her voice. I hear it. But it is barely a hushed whisper. With each passing day, it grows softer, and softer… And I know that eventually, I shall no longer be able to hear her in my mind. I won't smell the ghostly hint of jasmine and lavender. I won't feel her hands on my shoulders, or my bare chest- I won't feel her lips upon the back of my hand or on my fingers anymore. Because as my time is spent behind bars with nothing more than the screams of other prisoners, I loose the joy in my remembrance of her. I loose her to the folds of time that seems to haunt my very being within these cold, bare stone walls. I don't even have a view! I cannot look out and see the murky waters any more. I can't even feel the light of day upon my face. I can't look back into my memory and remember the way the ivy crossed the front of our manor. I can't hear my son and daughter's laughter floating over the evening breeze anymore… All I can hear are their screams! All I can hear is my sobs; I cannot imagine the goodness that used to fill my life. I cannot remember what beauty looked like…

My two children were little angels. Catherine was the younger of the two- they were twins. Not identical for obvious reasons, but twins, nonetheless. They had their mother's eyes, her lips, but my hair. The chocolate brown melted with strands of coppery russet that made them seem like they glittered halos of innocence in the French sunlight. But, with my hair colour, they inherited my wife's curls. They looked more like little Roman children versus the Russian and French heritage they really had. Ivan was the eldest, and my heir. His lithe frame was always scraggly and tall, the same as I was when I was his age. He would grow into his limbs and feet, or should have, I should rather say. He and Catherine loved the outdoors. And many times while I worked in my office, and Rosalie tended to her garden, they would race around the acres, hiding near their favourite spot in the whole of the manor.

The adored a small well about half a mile away from the main of the home. They lurked around the stones like the mystical imps that they were. Their giggles and laughter would echo up to my study, and I would take a moment to raise my eyes from the book that I was reading, or the article that I was searching to smile out of the bay window to the rolling figures of my children. They were like that the night that Lucius Malfoy came to me, asking me to join an elite group with him. My wife was working in the garden, and the sun was setting, splashing deep red and orange highlights over the French mountains in the background. I had been in the kitchen, preparing supper, and I hadn't looked well for visitations, so hearing a pop in the sitting room had been quite surprising. But, when I saw the lazy frame of my oldest and dearest friend, I rolled down my sleeves to my button-up shirt, and embraced the man like a brother. He had no children yet, for, unlike me, he had waited a few years after Hogwarts to wed… And he still held the slight air of a bachelor, though all knew he was now married to Narcissa Black.

Lucius always flaunted his wealth- and today it was obvious through his black velvet robes. He held his head high, his platinum-blonde hair tied back behind his head in a velvet black bow. And, naturally, he had a cane- one that was crested in silver with the Malfoy shield to officially top his 'Oh, I'm just dashing to a friend's, honey' outfit. I had offered him a seat, and he had remained standing, he looked almost like a preacher. I had simply smiled at him, and turned my back to him to continue cutting the celery and carrots that Rosalie had brought in about an hour before hand. I was planning on a nice vegetable soup for the summer night- all the windows were open so I could hear the giggles of my children, and the humming of my wife carried on the warm breeze- my own russet hair was tied back, almost the same as Lucius', though it was messy from continuously running my hand through it out of irritation. It was my first time attempting to cook an actual meal. Usually my 'cooking' meant me ordering the chef to fix a certain meal.

"Antonin- it would be kind to all of the wizarding community… Rabastan will join if you do. He's always looked up to you, thinks you wise," Lucius was saying and my eyes were focused out of the window while my hands brought the knife down on the celery- the thunk of the blade in the cutting board cutting through my wife's laughter and her warning to the children not to make fun of my cooking. I couldn't say anything- I didn't know what to feel. Of course I believed in this man's views on the wizarding world. Just as my wife did, and any decent pureblood witch or wizard. But he was asking me to make a contract with this shadow that I had never even seen. He had even shown me his 'mark'- I didn't know what to say, so I had gone back to the vegetables to continue working to create a half-decent supper, and preferably one that was eatable.

"I don't know, Lucius. What would happen if something happened to me? What would Rosalie do? Catherine and Ivan; they're young. She would need assistance- I… Lucius, isn't it a bit early to be signing away our lives?" I turned to face him, my arms had been crossed out of annoyance that my reasons seemed to be going in one of his haughty ears and out the other, "We're only twenty three. Think about it. Please." I had closed my eyes as I heard one of the doors in the house slam shut- soft strides walking down the hall and then my wife walked into the doorway, her arm winding it's way to hold herself up on the frame. She smiled at me, and then her blue gaze met the frame of Lucius and her grin seemed to flicker for but a moment. She had never honestly looked up to the man that was Malfoy, instead only treating him decent because I considered him not just an ally, but a true friend as well.

She looked radiant to me. Her hair was down, soft curls falling around her face, and her dark lashes framed her eyes… Her attire was nothing more than a long sleeved button-up blouse, and a beautiful broomstick brown skirt. Her feet were bare from running around the yard with Catherine and Ivan; her fingers still a little dirty from the garden. She walked past Lucius, throwing him an arched brow, and her eyes searching mine as to wonder why he was here. She then placed her hands on my neck, smiling playfully as I grabbed them, removing them from my skin and kissing her wrist, "How can I cook if you bring in dirt for me to wash again?" I had whispered against her smooth skin.

Rosalie had simply leaned against me, whispering in my ear with a soft giggle, "Because I don't wish for you to cook, Antonin, I wish to distract you, and taunt you… I like it when you are annoyed-" she had stopped, then, because of a soft cough from Lucius. Her eyes rolled, and she turned- I smiled, lowering my own hazel gaze for when she pushed Lucius into a chair, she seemed neither annoyed, or angry that he had come to visit. She was nothing but a beautiful French hostess, like her mother had trained her to be. Then, she left us. If she had stayed in the kitchen with me, I doubt that I would have agreed. I would have told Lucius that I would fund his escapades with this new revolution, but I, personally, would have no involvement in it. But, Rosalie had went back into the yard to gather up Catherine and Ivan for a bath before supper. I agreed, then, and I received my Dark Mark a few days afterwards.

The Mark didn't effect our family until about two months after I had gotten it. I was a well-respected face in the Ministry, and, as thus, the Dark Lord started to us, Lucius and I. We got information for him, and we mislead the Ministry with white lies and twisted the truth. Occasionally inserting phoney clues into murders, or removing them if we got the chance. It would be a normal workday for me- leaving around nine in the morning, returning at five in the afternoon to spend time with my love and my two children. They would hang on my arms, and they would hug me, as always. Rosalie would whisper lyrics of Shakespearian sonnets in my ear, and kiss me- after the children had gone to bed, nothing had changed. We would make love, candles lit around the room, and the humid summertime air blowing in through our open windows… It was no different. The Mark on my arm rarely burned; the Dark Lord did not need Lucius and I quite as often as he used Rabastan or Rodolphus- Rabastan was single, and as thus, had more time to spare towards 'the cause'.

It all started to unravel a night towards the end of summer. I was laying awake in bed, the silk sheets cool upon my skin as Rosalie slept soundly beside me. Her dark hair was around us both as she snuggled up close to my side. Her arms were wrapped around my chest, and my right hand was running down her back, tracing the hem of her silk nightgown. My left arm was laying beside me like a curse, the dark blotch on my skin glaring up at me accusingly. And then, I felt it. It was as if a red-hot iron was pressed against my arm, and I sat up, clutching my forearm. The Mark itself was bright red, almost luminescent in the shadows that crept through our bedroom. I was breathing heavily, and I pulled the sheets away from my body, standing and walking across the wooden floor, wincing at every creak it made. I remained silent as to not wake up everyone in the house as I pulled on my dark robes, pulling up the hood, and pulling on my dark gloves. The mask rested in my pocket- my personal opinion was that if I didn't need that velvety, woollen thing than I wasn't going to wear it until last minute. It almost suffocated the person who put it on. I walked back out into our bedroom, running my fingers through Rosalie's hair, and then I left. I didn't see the tears that were running down her cheeks as if she knew something I did not…

When I arrived with the Dark Lord, there were only two other shapes in the dark room. Lucius, and Rodolphus, who walked towards me embracing me, like a brother. I hadn't seen the young man since Hogwarts, but he was easily recognizable. He had short hair, as dark of a brown as his brother, Rabastan, but there was always the different air around Rodolphus. Perhaps, it was the fact that he had married the most wanted girl in Hogwarts, or maybe it was simply because he was a wealthy French representative to the Ministry whereas Rabastan had chosen to go into the teaching career and run a library in Northern France, thus, making him the richest of the two. Either way, I returned his hug, and then got my assignment… And my stomach seemed to knot and my heart seemed to drop to my knees. There was a troublesome Ministry employee that had apparently figured out what Lucius and I were doing… That we were spies- we were the enemy. And said employee was stupid enough to drop hints that he knew to the wrong people within the Ministry. Thus, the Dark Lord found out versus the minister.

We were to murder the official. The three of us. Extract all information we could from the man, and then butcher him like he was nothing more than an animal that had gone mad. I was uncomfortable, and it must have shown, for the Dark Lord had taken me aside and spoken to me. It was my first murder, I suppose. I was more than capable of doing it- if the Ministry got wind of what I was doing, and I was put away, I would never be able to see my family again. He repeated this to me. He drove this fact into my skull, and he made sure I understood it. The man writhed on the floor under our torture when we had finally left the Dark Lord. I hung around the back, pacing- Rodolphus and Lucius took care of everything. They put into a good word to the Dark Lord for me as well. However, I think he knew that I was more of a nuisance than a hand to his cause.

The following week, I wasn't called at all, and I stayed home, telling the Ministry that I was ill. Rosalie seemed to know what I had witnessed, and she didn't know what to do, for she would keep walking into a room with me, and then walking back out. Catherine and Ivan, however, were the same foolish and tricky children they were. They always seemed to cheer me up. And by the beginning of the second week that I felt like I was in hell, Rosalie finally came in, and put her arms around my neck. She pressed her lips into my hair so many times I lost count, her face streaked with red from her tears. I returned her kisses, and it seemed as if the past week had never happened. She whispered into my ear her advice- and I thought I would take it. To not kill for the Dark Lord- to gather information. I could easily do that, but I do not think that I could do murder… But I never had the chance.

I had went into the Ministry the next day. I had done my civic duty to the magical community. I walked around with Rabastan, who was visiting for another test he needed to take to update his teaching degree. I mingled, and I offered my advice to the minister, which he happily took unbeknown to him as to who I really pledged my allegiance to. He accepted my lies, and my manipulation with open arms, as usual, and Rabastan hung towards the back watching with his thoughtful gaze. He always made it through his days as if he was reading a book, and this was written on its pages. He was always considered handsome in Hogwarts because of his mystery. Yet, he was always unavailable. He was not interested in a partner, male or female, in the waltz that was life, it seemed. He was fully satisfied by his teaching position at Beauxbatons and his other summertime job of the head of a Library.

I left him at the door to where he was to study for his test. I turned, and I was about to go home… Until I heard a familiar voice screaming out my name down the hall. I turned, and I remember every single detail at this moment. There was Lucius, running up the long corridor to meet me. He wove throughout the crowd of people that surrounded him, that blocked the hall, and he shoved the occasional out of his way. His eyes were open in horror, and his white hair had completely come undone as if he had ran throughout the whole Ministry in search of me. His feet pounded on the carpeted floor, and his robes were flying out behind him as he ran. I had arched my brows in confusion, and it took only two words from his lips as he screamed them down the rest of the hallway to make me immediately disappear to reappear at home: "YOUR FAMILY-"

I hadn't waited for the rest. I had left. When I appeared on the walk leading up to the door to my home, the door was hanging open, swinging on it's hinges emitting mournful cries as to what it had witnessed. I hadn't even looked behind me. I raced forward, my shoes crunching on the gravel of the walk, my dignity forgotten only to be replaced by worry. By fear as to what I knew, somewhere in the pit of my stomach, that I would find. The house itself was vacant. No servants lingered, no house-elves came out to greet me. The only sound that I could hear was the soft creaking of the wood-floors beneath my feet. I heard no laughter from my children; I heard no sighs from my wife… I raced through the manor. I searched everything, all the while the seconds dragged by so slow that I thought I could see myself searching. From the house, I ran out the back, to my wife's garden. There was nothing there but the soft fragrance of jasmine and lavender mixing with the sweet honeydew that floated in the evening breeze.

The only place I could go to look next was the well. The stones looked so menacing that night. I dreaded what I was to find, yet I knew what I was to see. I knew it, deep down what had happened, but seeing it… It would make it final. Irreversible. I couldn't look… I don't think that I actually did see them. The only thing I saw was a hand. It was Catherine's- she had her mother's slender fingers… It was in the green grass, the blades curling around her fingers as if they were weeping over her skin. I froze. I couldn't feel anything, I couldn't see anything. I could only hear the soft chirps of distant birds, the soft breeze sweeping around me, blowing my robes around my legs, my hair seemed to unravel from it's ponytail, and fly around my face. I couldn't find my legs. My children… They were dead. They couldn't move, they couldn't speak. I would never hear their laughter- I would never see their faces again. I would… Rosalie…

My eyes tore away from the small hand, and I turned- she wasn't in the house, nor was she in the garden. The only thing I could think of looking in was the courtyard. I didn't bother running into the house. I raced around the corner, and, sliding on the gravel path that made the driveway, I came to a stop. It was almost a heavenly sight that I then saw. Upon the tan pebbles was a bundle of light blue cloth that danced in the humid summer breeze. A scarf tugged for freedom from underneath a slender arm, and her figure was outlined by a stylish corset that she was going to wear tonight. I was going to take her out… And she was already dressed. Her hair was loose, but it was evident that it had been up. The curls danced over the dusty gravel, and I fell to my knees. I know I was screaming, though I couldn't hear myself. I know that I collapsed to the ground, my hands clutching the pebbles in my fists as I screamed curses to the ground. The earth that I knew had nothing to do with the murders that happened here. Thus, I dragged myself over the stones toward her. I reached out, pulling her towards me, her face rolling over to look at me- her blue eyes closed to the world as if she were sleeping.

My hands clung to her arm, tightening my grip as if I could pull her back to the land of the living. But, I knew I couldn't. I wrapped my arms around her, and I sat up, pulling her into my lap where I then leaned over, pressing my face into her hair, praying. Oh, I would have given anything for her and my children back. I would have given my wealth, my name, my heritage, my own soul… But, I knew there would be no bargains to strike. And I held her. I held her, and I cried. I couldn't turn back and go to my children… They were harder to look at, I knew. But, I did mourn their death… I just could not bear to see their faces- deserted, uninhabited like the house behind me. The stupid vineyard that I had bought for our family to grow in. When my screams and sobs died down, I suppose, I noticed that I was not alone. I don't know how long I was there, holding Rosalie, but I do know that when I first touched her, she was warm, and when I left, she was cold. The sun was still above the mountains to the north when I had come, and it was down when I was lead away. It was Lucius who was behind me. He had walked over, placing his hands upon my shoulders, and making me rise. With a soft sigh, he said to words to me that would change my outlook on life and my work for the Dark Lord… "Gideon and Fabian…"

It was then that I stopped my morning. That very moment, and it was then that I put my head into the air. It was with that information that I disregarded all of the dignity that I had kept throughout my career. I walked back into the house, and I slipped on my dark robes and mask. I left the house, exiting and pausing still seeing Lucius standing in the drive. His eyes were downcast at the silent figure of my wife, and his arms were crossed, one hand twirling his wand, "What say you… we stop this from happening to another…?"

My lips had curved into a smile, and I knew what I wanted to do. It was Lucius, Rabastan, Rodolphus, Bellatrix, and myself that hunted down the Prewett brothers that had slaughtered my family- and we repaid them their debt to me. It was only afterwards the details behind my family's murder became apparent. Crouch, from the Ministry, had heard about my actions within their folds, and had ordered the two Prewetts to go and extract information from my wife and my two children. However, when they had arrived, Rosalie had faced them down- duelling to the death, hers. They had then turned upon Catherine and Ivan, but the two children had fled. They caught them behind the well, and subjected them to the spells the Ministry calls as protocol for extracting the truth. Unfortunately, since Catherine and Ivan were so young… the spells damaged them mentally- the Prewetts had left for assistance when the children passed out. However, I arrived then, discovering them. They were not dead, but they were unconscious, slowly fading from this earth. As I screamed and clutched the body of my wife to my chest, both of my children withdrew from my life, exhaling their last breath when I could have helped them…

At last, I am alone. At last, behind these bars, and inside these cold stone walls, I am alone. At last, finally, I can be here with my memories. At last, I can see them again. I can hold them again… I can touch them again. At last, they are safe. They are safer where they are than any protection I could offer. At last, I am with them. At last, I can feel Rosalie's touch. At last, I can hear Catherine and Ivan's laughter again. At last, I can smell jasmine and lavender. At last, I can feel the summer breeze. At last, I can feel her touch on my chest… At last… I am alone…


	2. Regulus Black

Regulus Black

_"Take my honor from me, and my life is done."  
_**William Shakespeare, _Richard II_**

I was a year younger than she—a year younger than he—and I was to live a shorter live than either of them. Yet, I was still the "young one"… I was the second in my family linage, even though it was my name on the family's tree that stated my inheritance to our fortune. It was my elder brother who got all the glory in Hogwarts—it was true, that I can not deny. He had his women, his brandy, his good times, his excellent grades—he also had his immaturity, his snobbery, his fickle words and snide intelligence, but I… I was the King of Slytherin. In my hand, I held everyone in that House between my fingers with the ability to set the group aside, all but one, so I could play cat and mouse, or simply achieve pleasure in my bedchamber in the dungeons. But, there was a young woman who I had become… obsessed with… over my years. She was the one who taught me how to kiss—and, oh, how so many young suitors wished to be "taught" by her as well, I presume.

She was my cousin. Don't you arch your brow at me? Scoff at me? Sneer at my sin? This secret that I have hidden away within the folds of my mind even past death? You do not while I am here, while you are reading this, no… but you will go back to your room, and curl up in your small chair, and stare at that knot in the wall where you will sneer and spit at my memory. Oh, what shame I have brought to my family! What horrible, nasty curses I have gotten the Almighty and all his angels to put upon the name "Black". And how I adore this… I have not only managed to retain my place beneath the warm arms of Mother Earth, but I have been able to trip fate enough so that what I could not have, could not have been had by Sirius. A typical romantic tale of two brothers fighting over a single woman like two wolves would snarl and wrestle for a scrap of meat. The difference between this and nature, however, is that, unlike Sirius I would not have succeeded, and then grow tired. I would have been there for her always—caressing her hair, placing upon her skin, soft pearls from the depths of the ocean—expensive black pearls, as dark as our hair, laid to rest in palms of silver that would be so soft, it would allow the beads to follow the curve of her neck, shoulders, and chest perfectly…

Bellatrix was of my blood. She was a cousin to me by blood relation—not by marriage. She understood me. We were the same—lustful creatures, pining for life, but unable to see it through the foggy windows of the back seats of magical cars, or through the steam of the shower where we met our many lovers. I went though Hogwarts watching her and Sirius act as if nothing was between them—their adverted eyes during classes, or in the corridors… oh, but it was obvious if you knew how a Black watches the ones they have relations with. They will never see your gaze in the room—they will look down at you as if you are nothing more than a House Elf—blow them… But, when you have turned away from them, their eyes will scan over your shoulders, undressing and revealing you and all your weaknesses—your pleasures, and your fears… There is something that needs to be explained about our heritage.

The Black family tree is the oldest, and purest of the families in Briton. We date back extraordinarily far, our roots weaving throughout the oldest and most sacred Celtic soil. But, we did not achieve our wealth from them. We did not achieve our wealth until the medieval times, actually. You see, if you go back far enough, you will stumble upon a young man named Edmund Black. He was a naïve of sorts, and wed a young woman whose name has since been burnt off our tapestry. The fact is, is that this woman brought with her power that… well, gave us our power, influence, and beauty. Our family's legends have it that she was Roman—the occasional has said that she was Greek… One even said that she was French, but found her roots, on her mother's side, in Egypt. Whatever she be, she was the one who started our lineage of black hair, smooth, flawless skin… and introduced the thirst for power to our blood. How she accomplished this is unknown—but, in simple words, it was through sex, magic, and murder that she put gold to that penniless Edmund. After his death—under the most curious of circumstances—she vowed that none who were tied to her children would hold any remorse for their actions. They would all uphold the family name, and, of course, the family wealth. She was wrong.

Edmund emerged with all his might and glory through Sirius. I doubt they are the same person, of course, as Sirius is not in the least stupid, nor naïve. He would have been the perfect son between our ancestors—he was sexually driven enough to hold lust on his sleeve, but good enough to tempt Bellatrix with a simple wink here and there. He was the apple on her forbidden tree, and how many times she sunk her teeth into his skin, I am not aware—but I do know it was countless. Countless enough, that I was surprised there was enough of him to be killed… It wasn't as exciting as I thought it would have been. His death—the starting points for controversy as we all know it. Oh, what a gem he was—a precious jewel to Dumbledore. Little did the great and powerful wizard know that while Sirius wasn't at meetings, he was shagging a Death Eater on the back of his motorcycle, or in that shabby apartment on that mattress and sheet he called a "bed"?

Then came the day where I had made my choice. I had weighted the options with ease, and careful accuracy. I can not say that I knew the Dark Lord would fail—I had an idea that he would. But, I chose to do what Sirius did not. I attended my first meeting, and I was branded like a steer at an auction—Narcissa had begged me not to, she had even attempted to keep me from going with Lucius to meet the infamous wizard that caused devastation and fear in order to prove his point. The Mudblood himself that sneered in the face of his Muggle father and demanded respect from Purebloods because of his mother's ties… the Lord Voldemort. Bellatrix had been shocked when I arrived—her eyes, dark and hungry watched me from under her hood, from beneath that mask that hid her elegant and aristocratic features that she otherwise paraded around. I had come in a casual outfit—nothing special. Obviously, this was different from how the rest had greeted "his majesty"—I was wearing nothing more than a white Oxford, grey wool slacks, and polished black shoes. My hair was tied back at the crook of my neck into a loose hold that would keep it away from my face… His cold fingers had gripped my arm, rolling up my sleeve with jerks that scraped the hems against my skin, and it was over in a matter of minutes.

He pressed his wand to my forearm, and it burned—I never let my eyes leave my arm. Magic is powerful, but this was not magic—this was devilry. It was pain beyond measure—it was not only burning itself on my arm, on my skin, it was etching itself onto my soul, removing me from a normal life into one of torture, death, and rot. The porcelain white of my forearm went though a series in seconds—it burned red, blistered, and then melted away into a red etch that smoked once his wand was removed. The pain had raced up my nerves, choked my mind, and had made it back to be removed within that time period, leaving me dazed and tired… I was not made to stand in the meeting that night—I was assisted to the back where I laid down on the ground, my head on my right arm, and my eyes closed, though I was not asleep… 'Twas Bellatrix who offered to assist me home—her husband, Rodolphus, was away on a mission, and it would be obvious that my elder cousin should take care of me—I was the young heir to the family. 'Twas her duty, she claimed.

She was the only one that was unaware of my decision—and she let me see her disappointment that she hadn't been told—"Regulus Black, how dare you do that to me. How dare you make a choice without consulting your family, your blood, your relations? Have you no shame? Have you no consciousness—no peace at night when you sleep?"

With a sigh, I leaned back on the couch located in her drawing room, propping my feet up on the dainty, French coffee table, arching my brows at the carved cross on the tabletop. My arms folded over my chest, and I grinned up at her—eyebrows arching, and strands of black hair falling from their respective hold, "You dare to lecture me?—oh, you have a bit of dog fur on your blouse, cousin."

Her face was expressionless. Her hand reached up to brush off her blouse, though she did not look away from me to see if I was lying—my message was registered by her… It would be hard not to. Her head rose, her eyes looking through dark eyelashes down her nose at me, "Regulus Aries Black, are you suggesting that I am rolling about with mutts? Maybe, you would think I play fetch as well, since I am obviously a stray—unfit for this family, oh wise heir…"

"A dog? No, dear cousin. A naïve puppy who has just realized that rolling about with mutts seems to be the fashion?" I grinned, and stood—my brows arching high over my oval eyes; blue irises that seemed to entrance the young women at Hogwarts into my grip. There was a table between us—a small table, one that could easily be kicked away to form a path, and though she didn't take a step back, I could see her tense. "No, no, no—you are a lady. One from the same tree as I, yet you choose the one that has fallen—that has been plucked from our branches by good nature…? How come..? How could you, dear cousin, choose him?—Sirius is not your type. Rodolphus is your type. I am sure that the sex is not as good, yes? The French were always too sensitive to satisfy you… Frilly shirts and soft velvet… But, can you honestly have an educated conversation with Sirius? That is, between romps in the grass…"

"What then, of your affairs? You have not yet settled down. You are slowly aging, and your younger years shan't last long. Eventually, you shall be too old to bare an heir, and your lovers shall be dead—your shagging shall be a thing in the past… You are, in your own part, a disgrace to this family—the way you hop around England and shag like a rabbit." Her lips curved into a grin, and with a sigh, she turned away from me. Her hands reached up to her dark cloak from around her shoulders—"I do not think it matters if I have lovers. I am wed. I am not the heir. I have not the need to care about your family, Regulus. I am a Lestrange, now…" She looked over her shoulder at me, her lips curved into a knowing smirk—she knew how to anger me.

Narcissa was a young lady before her time had come—as for me, Bellatrix, and Sirius? We were the ones that, during the family reunion, were out in the backyard, playing "Spin the Bottle", or some other such nonsense. Andromeda had long since gone to Hogwarts—and… Sirius seemed to feel alone after she had graduated. Thus, our trio seemed to revert to a duo—Bellatrix and I. Especially after our first year of Hogwarts. Sirius was never the same after he met James Potter. I did not mind—I did not care. I hadn't cared about Sirius, really, honestly. The only person I worried about had been Bellatrix—always, Bellatrix. And she seemed distraught after Sirius clung to Gryffindor's motto… Since then, she seemed to be crushed—and, though she would let no one see it, she took it out on me. She pushed my buttons deliberately to see how I would react, and I would do the same to her. Our relationship was one full of insults and snobbery, hierarchy and passion… Passion, meaning feeling—not passion in the respect that her steady relationship with Sirius had been constructed on. My face was wiped clean—it was my turn to be shocked. I side-stepped the coffee table, my eyes narrowing, my brows pulling together, my lips curving into a sneer; my hand reached out, grabbing hold of her slender shoulder, and spinning her around to face me, "You are apart of this family. You are my cousin—you are linked to this name as much as I, and both of our mistakes reflect upon our responsibilities as children of our ancient tree—dare you argue and yell with honor and blood?"

"Are you questioning me out of genuine feeling, Regulus, or are you still being a spoiled brat?" She jerked away, but I retained my grip, thus she took a step back, and I followed. We began an odd waltz of sorts—dancing over the room by following the other, stepping closer when we sneered at the offender, and taking a step back when the other pressed against us. As I held onto her arm, her free hand reached up using my shoulder to keep her balance as I twisted my grip out of anger and disgusting pride at seeing her in pain—

"I am a spoiled brat? Look at you, you whore. Spoiled and draped in finery—but if you remove the paint and the clothing; you are nothing more than a rich man's slut…" I paused then, and she arched her brows—dark eyes watching me, and when she attempted to step back, she couldn't. Her back was against the wall, my knee propped against the paneling, and my free hand palm-flat against the wall. "What is wrong with me? Why never me?"

She allowed her lips to part in curious suspicion, "Never you?" She blinked—"Did you ever want it to be you? What, since we are questioning preferences, is the difference between the rich man's whore and your own sleazy lovers?"

"Nothing," I frowned, shaking my head. I let loose my hand, and I left that night—one last glimpse of her, and she was sliding down the wall to sit on the floor before the door closed behind me.

If I had known the series of events that would follow that, I wouldn't have said anything that I had. Instead of hurting her, I would have said what I meant, and I would have kissed her—for the second time, I would have felt her velvet lips on mine, brushing over mine with passion and grace… But, I did not know fate—I was not a Seer. I was a young man too far gone to see what I had gotten myself into… That I had signed my warrant for my own death.

Most say my death was romantic. A tale for Shakespeare—I say that my death was God mocking me. I was cornered on a cliff just north of the Scottish border by Lucius Malfoy—his dark form stepping out from the shadows of the moonless night as if he were taking off a black cloak. He hadn't drawn his wand, and he hadn't worn his Death Eater robes—he simply walked up beside me, his arms mimicking mine in the respect that they were folded behind his back. I was looking over the edge into the ocean, the crash of the cold water far below screaming out hymns to me of my life—small poems that spit out what I had done in this life, and what I had neglected. Mocking me with snickering faces as they told me what was to come of me after I would hear those soft words hissed in front of me. But, Lucius did not say anything. It had long seemed that we both registered that he would kill me, and I would disappear into the abyss that is darkness.

He arched his brows at me, his long platinum hair held back in a loose ponytail at the crook of his neck while mine was loose in the nighttime breeze. From his robes, he pulled out a dark brown envelope, and passed it to me in silence. I looked down, my brows arching with curiosity—upon the front of the envelope; in even and curved handwriting was my name… The handwriting was obvious to me—only one person that I knew could write with such beauty. I slit open the seal, and out into my palm fell a golden necklace—a locket. My brows pulled together, and I turned the envelope upside down in search of a note of some kind… Out fluttered a tiny note, and as I read it, I slipped the chain over my head—I didn't even hear Lucius utter my death sentence.

The last thing I knew was that I was falling towards the ocean, looking up and seeing Lucius turning his back to the cliff—the note fluttering down after me, the words barely comprehensible with such little light, before I felt the cold surf engulf me and my locket for eternity—'You're asking me to take on too much of a burden for someone I've no relation to, Regulus. Sirius.'


End file.
